:: Darrin Charles Wilson's Wraithsandworlds.com Free Preview::

   Chapter One

   When the tire blew, Grace Tiffen had just taken the first drag of her cigarette. Immediately the car swerved to the right and she grabbed the wheel with both hands causing the cigarette to fall from her mouth. The smoldering end bit into her bare thigh but there was no time for her brain to register pain. The deafening squeal of rubber on asphalt drilled through her head and she winced. Just ahead, the road narrowed to an acute hairpin. Worse, little more than a guardrail stood between Grace’s Honda and a sheer drop of several hundred feet.
   The next events of Grace’s life would pass in just a few seconds but to Grace; they would be rich with detail and emotion as if they had passed in a swarm of hours.
   The car careened across the road and smashed into the rocky cliff face on her right side. Small boulders crashed onto her hood and windshield, fracturing the glass and denting the metal. Grace’s blood thundered behind her ribcage as if it were stoked on coal as she struggled to wrench the wheel to the left. Only after she did so did she realize it was a mistake.
   The car had bounced off of the rocky edge so hard it had picked up speed back across the road. It had become a two-ton projectile headed directly for the guardrail. She tried to steer the car back to the curve of the road but the speed was too great; the car burst through the guardrail into oblivion. Rocks, wood splinters, and shattered glass catapulted into open air along with the car and began the long descent to the stony gorge below.
   Grace’s stomach left her as if she was on a roller coaster plunge. Her hands involuntarily locked themselves to the steering wheel and her arms tensed like steel braces pinning her back into the seat. Like a crippling vice, icy fingers wrapped around her spine and she shuddered. The sensation caused a cold sweat to wash over her like a mid-summer shower and made her flesh prickle.
   Her window was open and the unnaturally powerful torrent of wind was the only clue to her that she was travelling faster than she should. Her eyes fluttered as the air currents pushed under her eyelids, drying out her eyes.
   She became aware of a scream but heard nothing except the pulsing roar of blood coursing through her head. Her heart hammered so hard she thought it would explode right through her chest and bounce off the steering wheel. As the car arced into a nosedive, Grace craned her neck and gulped for air as if she had just broken the ocean surface after a long ascent. From this point forward, she was not aware of any thought patterns at all. Everything happening to her stripped away all abstract thought and awareness. Only instinct remained.
   Had it not been for her seatbelt, she would’ve been thrown through the windshield instantly. Adrenaline rocketed from one end of her body to the other flushing her with a massive surge of endorphins. All sense of reality fell away, and she actually giggled as her eyes registered the jagged rocks below closing in on her. She felt the warm flow of urine under her shorts and around her buttocks as the car continued its forward rotation. The car was now falling upside down. It was going to land on its roof.
   Grace was overcome by the irrational sensation that if she were able to hold her head still, perhaps she would somehow survive the impact. As the shadows fell upon the cabin of the Accord, Grace felt an extreme claustrophobia. The first thing she noticed was the peculiar way her sun visor dropped right in front of her eyes, right into the steering wheel. She became aware of a strange, freezing cold pressure on the top of her head as her skull was compressed down into her spinal cord, exploding her vertebrae one after the other.
   It was an odd sensation. Literally lasting only a pair of seconds, but she was able to cradle the feeling of splintering bone and bursting organs like she was experiencing a drawn-out ballet of tearing flesh.
   There was no pain. Only pressures of varying intensities. When her brain finally compressed, darkness overcame her.
   Then silence.
   The only sensation Grace could feel now was surprising warmth as if floating inside a volcanic underwater current deep in the ocean.
   A moment later, the pleasant warmth of the ocean current became gagging nausea as if she had just bitten into the belly of an oily, ammonia-filled reptile. Its tissue-thin flesh bursting apart inside her mouth and the choking sensation of plump vital organs slipping down her throat in a wash of warm blood.
   Such strangeness.
   Then there was cold.
   A horrifying, bone-freezing cold.

::

   Grace opened her eyes and shivered. Her dark, supple skin was now tight and cold. She wiped a strand of her straight black tresses away from the right side of her face and she blinked. Her eyelashes were lightly caked with frost as was her hair.
   She was in a fetal position. The ground was icy, yet soft enough to contour around her slim five-foot five frame. In front of her, a grainy white squall filled her panorama.
   It was freezing.
   She was naked in the middle of a snowstorm.
   Snow particles driven by thrashing wind stung her body like a barrage of needles.
   It wasn’t a dream. Icy wind robbed her tongue of moisture. Her eyes were parched and burning.
   What was happening?
   She hugged herself. Muscles in her back and shoulders tensed up in an effort to keep warm. She panicked. She felt her heart rate shoot up and drew in quick, bird-like breaths. Where was she? How did she get here?
   What the hell was happening? A creeping numbness began in her fingers and toes and quickly shot through her arms and legs. If she didn’t find shelter soon, she’d go into shock and freeze to death.
   She shielded her eyes with her palm and tried to peer through the storm. At first, she could see nothing but lashing snow. Then her peripheral vision picked up a dark shadow. It appeared quickly and moved like lightning through the murk. Taking a defensive posture, Grace peeled her way out of the snowy depression and stood up. She faced the shadow’s direction but the apparition had vanished. "Who’s there?"
   From her far left, something else caught her attention—another apparition. Only this one burst out of the murk and grabbed onto her, trying to keep from falling to the ground. It was a man; his face contorted in absolute panic and terror.
   He was elderly, perhaps sixty or seventy years old, and just as naked as Grace. She screamed in fright and grabbed his arms, but the man struggled to hold on. He pleaded to her. "Help me… help me… please…they’re coming!"
   He vanished from sight with a scream, yanked backward by the feet into the storm. She heard his scream decay into a painful cry: rasping and full of shock. It was replaced a moment later with an inhuman hiss followed by an odd, throaty clicking sound which echoed all around her.
   Grace was petrified. She had no recollection of how she came to be here, where she was, or what on earth was going on. She quickly turned about in jerking, panicked motions to see entirely around her. The impulse to run was overwhelming and she began to hurry forward despite punishing snow blindness.
   A few moments passed. The noise of the wind had died down but the snow had intensified. What was a grainy white squall now became a blinding blur. She could, however, pick up bright flashes of white and blue light in the storm. Unclear, brief vortexes of light that seemed to appear and disappear all around her. This was the worst nightmare she had ever had. She tried to concentrate on waking up. But it was futile. It all felt so incredibly real. The most realistic nightmare she had ever experienced.
   Squinting and stumbling forward, she discerned a dark mass just ahead and ran straight for it. It was a small crowd of people elbowing and pushing each other in alarm. All of them were naked and screaming. Grace was jostled. One by one, the people were being pulled or sucked back into the storm by some powerful force. Just as before, she clearly heard another sinuous hiss cleaving the wind like a razor, followed by peculiar clicking.
   Grace was horrified. "What’s happening? Somebody help me!"
   One by one people were sucked back into the folds of the storm until finally the last person vanished in the blizzard. It happened so quickly. Grace was alone again.
   Someone shouted in the distance, faint, almost inaudible above the wind. The voice was begging for someone to help them.
   Another twisting shadow circled. Grace saw it and cried desperately, "Help me! Somebody!"
   Numbness took over the rest of her body. She sensed she was going into shock. Crouching down into a ball, she hugged her knees and began to cry. "Oh God… please help me!"
   From directly behind her: a hiss. Then clicking.
   Grace caught her breath, air suspended tightly in her throat. Her heart pounded and she began to shake uncontrollably.
   She sensed a nascent hopelessness embrace her as solidly as the penetrating cold. She scanned the environment one more time. Nothing but blowing snow and an underlying gray backdrop closing in like a curtain of despair. Fear became a thick serpent wrapping itself around her torso for the final death crush.
   She saw something in the distance. A flickering orange light. Different from these weird flashes of white light. It moved toward her, and she noticed it was perched on top of a long stick held by a large and foreboding figure.
   Struggling to get closer, the figure wobbled and teetered in the forceful wind and deep snow. This one didn’t seem as panicked as the others. Grace didn’t care if this was good or bad, she was glad to see anyone. "Hey!" she yelled, waving her arm. "Hey! Over here!"
   As the figure approached, its large, wide-shouldered posture suggested a man. He was dressed in bleached animal skins much like an Inuit, and carried a rolled up bag of some sort. A furry hood covered his face. He approached, and then stopped, towering over her like a dark monolith. Grace suddenly remembered she was naked and quickly covered her bosom and privates. The man dropped the bag and unfolded it.
   He moved close to her.
   Even though she had beckoned him to approach, Grace screamed. Her arms thrashed wildly as she fought him off.
   "Relax. I won’t hurt you," the man said. "C’mon, we’ve got to get you out of here."
   Her limbs went limp as her strength drained away. In the bag was a pile of animal skins just like the ones he wore. He took out a large tarpaulin and covered her. "Wrap yourself. We’ve got to get you into some shelter quickly."
   Grace looked at his face but couldn’t make it out under the shadow of his hood. "Who are you? What’s happening?"
   "My name’s Sam Tanner but you can call me Deacon." He turned and looked at her directly. "I’ll answer your questions later. Please come with me. We’ve got to get you off the ice cap. Quickly. We’ve got to move."
   Together they began to lurch across the tundra with his flaming torch leading the way. Behind her, Grace heard another scream. It was a woman. She sounded like she was in pain. She didn’t look back to wait for the hiss.

::


   Grace focused on the fire.
   A large, crackling flame blazed from a sprawling pile of cinder and dried animal pelts. The smell wasn’t pleasant, but it was warm and that was all that mattered.
   A few moments earlier, Deacon had guided her to the edge of a massive precipice of ice and asked her to hold his arm tightly. He helped her down over the edge onto a rocky shelf just below their line of sight. The shelf was narrow and they had to advance slowly and carefully. The ice wall crumbled next to them and her fingers struggled to maintain purchase. Directly below, a sheer drop waited for any slip or misstep. Eyes wide, adrenaline pumping like a locomotive through her body, her fear became paralyzing. Deacon reassured her. Enough to motivate her to put one foot in front of the other. Slowly, carefully. But moving nonetheless.
   "Step where I step," he had shouted to her. She did so diligently, and eventually came to rest just under the snowcap.
   There was a natural hollow in the rock, a shelter. It was the size of a small house. Inside, Grace saw the fire and several makeshift tents constructed from layered animal hides. A manmade rack built from eight-foot tall wooden logs dominated the far side of the cave. It held various animal skins; some were mottled and fleshy, others thick and hairy. Around the perimeter of the cave, small sconces of flame burned, illuminating the interior with a warm ginger light. The cave was humid. Moisture dripped from the rocky walls, making the environment appear as though it had just experienced a recent downpour.
   Grace was absolutely freezing. She let go of Deacon’s arm to wrap her animal pelt more tightly.
   "C’mon," Deacon said, guiding her toward the fire. "Let’s get you warmed up. What’s your name?"
   She managed to stutter, "Grace. My name’s Grace."
   As they passed the nearest tent, a man exited and blocked their way. He was dressed in the same pelts as Deacon. Grace backed off instantly. His eyes were ice blue. He had long, straggly black hair and a rough, stubbly beard. Beneath a layer of grime, he had an alabaster-smooth complexion. He was probably in his mid-thirties, about ten years older than Grace, and muscular. He gazed at her with a keen interest.
   "What the hell is this, Deacon?" the man said.
   "Grace," Deacon said, removing his hood. "Meet Maru Bovair."
   Grace glanced at Deacon, who had the same Caucasian skin tone as Maru. But Deacon was much older. Grace guessed he was in his early sixties.
   She managed four questions in the span of a few seconds between shivers, "Where are my clothes? Where am I? How did I get here? Who are you?"
   Deacon turned to Maru. "She was alone in the southwest quadrant."
   Maru clutched Deacon’s arm like a vice and his teeth clenched. He was not concerned if Grace overheard. "I told you, no more. No more. I take no one else in."
   Surprised, Deacon defended, "She was about to get taken. Like the rest."
   "I don’t care! No one else comes in. Eight disciples. No more. Get her the hell away from here. Throw her back on the ice cap. Now."
   "She’s just arrived. She’s frightened. Just like you were. Like we all were. She’s not going back. She’s staying."
   "This is not a charity, old man. You’re weak. You’ve made it your mission to pick up every pathetic soul and bring them back here. Don’t forget, this is my reign. My shelter. We’ve enough people. We don’t need any more."
   Maru released Deacon’s arm, turned to Grace and studied her face. In the span of a few moments, he noticed her strong bone structure and her large, inquisitive eyes framed by delicately sweeping eyebrows. There was an odd marking on her right cheek just in front of her ear—a small cluster of blemishes. A birthmark, he thought. It wasn’t enough to take away from her beauty. His mind likened her to a gazelle. This black woman was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He was attracted immediately, but chose to quell the inconvenience before it developed. Maru had other concerns. Anger flushed through his body and his face tensed. "You’re not wanted here," he said to her. "So you’ll do exactly as I say when I say it. Understand?"
   She looked at him, fearful he was going to hit her.
   He repeated, "Understand?"
   She nodded quickly, "Yes."
   "If you choose to stay you will limit your movement." Maru scanned the cave and pointed to a dank, remote corner. "You will stay there. I encourage you, however, to leave on your own accord. I’ll even give you firewood and a flint rock. But if you choose to stay you’ll be obedient." His eyes burned into hers. She felt contempt and rage radiate from his face. "Think you’re scared now," Maru said. "You’d better not cross my path. If I even see you when I don’t wish it, I’ll string you up along with Deacon on the plateau, and let the Baku strip the flesh from your bodies."
   Grace was horrified. She remained silent, subdued.
   His speech was filled with venom: he meant every word. Maru cast one last glaring look at Deacon then moved to the cave entrance. Deacon took her forearm gently, and led her back into the cave. "Give him a few minutes," he said. "He doesn’t mean what he said. In the meantime, let’s get some clothes on you."
   Grace resisted. "What the hell is going on here? Please. Is this a kidnapping? What do you people want? Are you going to kill me?"
   Deacon inadvertently chuckled. "That would be a good trick. No we’re not gonna kill you. You’re safe, for now. Don’t worry, I know this is all very strange but it will make sense once you get dressed properly. I know we’ve just met, and you’ve no reason to trust me but please. Believe me when I say you need to get dressed."



   Chapter Two

   Grace knew Deacon was right. She had a million questions, and was well aware that if any one of them wanted her dead, raped or tortured, it would’ve no doubt started by now. Despite Maru’s clear threat, and the strange hostility of the situation, she chose to follow this man Deacon anyway. But with extreme caution. She hoped his promise of clothing was real. At least then she could defend herself with minimal injury. Naked, she was vulnerable as glass.
   "What’s a Baku?" Grace asked.
   Deacon smiled, and continued leading her. "A Baku is a type of bear that lives here. They’re very dangerous. Their hide is the warmest among all the animals here."
   "In fact," he continued, "we’ll try the Baku skins first. They should fit. C’mon. This way."
   Grace followed him over to the large collection of hanging pelts. "Where am I? What place is this?"
   "You’re in a very remote outpost."
   "Outpost? How did I get here? I don’t remember anything."
   "Get yourself warm and dry first, then we’ll worry about answers to your questions. All right?"
   She observed him in the firelight, and concluded politeness should most definitely be observed. She couldn’t afford a provocation. "Okay. You said your name’s Tanner?"
   "Yep. Sam Tanner but please, call me Deacon. I prefer Deacon."
   "Okay, Deacon. Can you tell me where my clothes are please? My real clothes?"
   He nodded. "I know this all must seem like the strangest thing you’ve ever experienced, not to mention suspicious. Nothing happened to you, believe me. Naked is how you arrived. It’s how we all arrive."
   "Excuse me?"
   His voice was calm, relaxed. "Do you remember anything at all?"
   "What?"
   Deacon took his attention off the skins and looked at her. "What do you remember? The last thing."
   "The last thing?" she thought for a moment. "I’m not sure… it’s a blank."
   "It’ll come back to you. Maru’ll answer most of your questions when he calms down. After you’re dressed we’ll go over and see him okay?"
   "No, I don’t think so."
   "Don’t worry. He’s all fire and brimstone."
   "He’s your leader."
   "In a manner of speaking."
   "Well, he seemed pretty pissed at me."
   "You’re new. He’ll get used to you. He’ll answer your questions. Once he talks to you, he’ll warm up. Believe me."
   "Why are you being so nice to me?"
   He faced her, his eyes narrowed. "Because this is the loneliest place you could ever imagine. And everyone could be a little stronger if they only had someone who believed in them. I firmly believe that."
   Grace regarded him and inhaled. She was caught between trusting him, and bolting. But this was an unfamiliar place, not to mention hostile, and she was currently warm and with a friend—at least someone who claimed to be a friend. She bit her lip and took a leap of faith knowing her alternative was icy death. She burned for answers but realized she didn’t know half of the questions. She also couldn’t defend herself naked and vulnerable. She nodded and smiled. She was quite relieved when he smiled back.
   He studied the array briefly then pulled a thick white and gray hide from its rung.
   "Baku skin," he said, unfolding the piece. It fell open heavily, and revealed the crudely sewn shape of a jacket. He smiled. "The wind can’t penetrate Baku. It’s very warm." He glanced back at the rack and pulled down two other pelts, these in the form of pants. "If the waist doesn’t fit, tie it with sinew. It helps if you also wrap the sinew around your legs too. Several sizes of boots you’ll find over there." Grace looked in the direction he was pointing and saw a curtain of the same skins covering a corner of the cave. "That’s the change room," he said, noticing her expression of deep concern. "The inside of the skin has been beaten. It’s quite soft. You’ll find sinew in there as well. I’ll meet you out here in a few minutes, okay?"
   Grace stared at him, her eyes wide.
   "Don’t worry," Deacon assured with gentle hand movements, clearly to encourage trust. "It’s all right. You’re safe. Nobody’s going to harm you here. We’re all in this together. We’re all the same."
   She said nothing. Just stared at him.
   Deacon smiled broadly. "Go on. Go. Get dressed."
   She cautiously walked over and went inside. A few minutes later when she came out, she had formed the skins to her body quite nicely, tying up extra slack with sinew. Her boots, made from pressed layers of hide also fit well. When Deacon saw her he couldn’t help but grin. "Not bad. Are you comfortable?"
   Grace caught herself smiling. The first time since she woke up in the storm. "It’s comfortable… it should keep the Arctic wind out."
   Deacon chuckled. "We’re not in the Arctic."
   "Listen, I appreciate your kindness. But please. Is this some kind of kidnapping? Was I drugged? You seem very nice, but I’d really like to find out where I am now please."
   He laughed. "All right. C’mon. Take a look. See for yourself where you are."
   Deacon motioned her to follow him to the mouth of the cave, where Maru was standing. She approached cautiously, remaining very close to Deacon.
   As they came to stop beside Maru, Deacon said, "We’re watching the direction of the storm front. It’s very important we try to predict its movement."
   "Why?" she asked.
   "The storm above us doesn’t dissipate. Ever. The ice field below is constantly beaten up by a blizzard. Sometimes the winds shift, and the storm curls over the ice cap. It can devastate our camp, so we need to watch carefully. We can prepare, if we have a notion that we’re about to get pummeled."
   "Then why did you camp here if it’s so dangerous?"
   "Caves like this are a rarity," Deacon said. "We were lucky to find this one."
   She followed Deacon’s gaze out into the thinning storm. The landscape was now visible through the blustering snow. The sky was vast. A deep hue of cerulean mixed with the steel gray and black of the turbulent storm front that stretched as far as the eye could see. Craggy snow-peaked mountain ranges as immense and endless as the Andes surrounded the great ice canyon before them.
   Directly below the entrance to their tiny cave, a great plateau of blizzard-beaten permafrost lead outward to the edge of a great canyon beyond and dropped off into infinity. Gusts of icy wind buffeted her face and tossed her hair. The immeasurable expanse was as familiar as if they were explorers who had stumbled upon a new arctic continent yet, at the same time, held an eerie, unearthly quality suggesting something wasn’t quite right. The way the mountains twisted, the way the clouds formed: nature here was different. Darker. Threatening. Malevolent.
   "What is this place?" she asked.
   "Welcome to the other side," Maru said.
   "Excuse me?"
   Maru looked down at her from his six-foot vantage point and laughed. "This is where you go when you die."
   "What did you say?"
   "Welcome to the afterlife, Grace," Deacon affirmed. "You’re dead."

::


   The unexpected passing of Grace Tiffen was a shock to the entire family. So when Grace’s aunt, Abigail Moon, insisted on a séance, even before the funeral proceedings, most declined. But a few family members agreed. She hosted it at her home: a grand former plantation in the Deep South.
   Grace’s cousin Emily, a willowy hypochondriac with long legs and big brown eyes was one of five participants.
   It was a Tuesday night and the weather was as morose as the occasion.
   Vanity mirrors were placed around the large Victorian Rococo table and faced each of the guests. Seated at the head of the table, Abigail said the mirrors were to facilitate the visitation.
   Her statement caused the five of them to become a little more unnerved than they already were. It was three minutes after three in the morning: the witching hour. The séance had lasted just over an hour already with nothing to show for it but several pairs of sweaty palms and an uneasy chill in the mid-August air.
   They were cocooned like pupae inside the grand Greek revival architecture of Abigail’s library in the heart of her sprawling home in Lafourche Parish, deep in southern Louisiana’s Bayou Country. The smell of undusted wood filled the air. The high fifteen-foot ceiling offset the smallness of the rectangular room and added a sense of nascent foreboding to the proceeding. Also noticeable was a strangling claustrophobia. The closeness was magnified by row upon row of books on rich mahogany shelves lining the walls.
   At four minutes after three, a distant snarl of thunder rolled across the marshes around the house and added to everyone’s apprehension.
   By this time, Emily’s eyes had adjusted to the subdued light and she could see everyone with moderate clarity. But the room was black as a tomb. Slivers of light came from the single small candle in the center of the table. They sat around it, waiting.
   The window that graced the north wall of the library was cracked open. A warm late summer breeze shifted the cumbersome red curtains, causing the candle flame to flicker.
   Abigail, perched like a monarch overseeing a coronation, lowered her head.
   "Very well," she said, and opened her eyes. Despite being confined to a wheelchair for the majority of her eighty-two years, Abigail commanded a room just by entering. Her face was round and well fed, with small black freckles sprinkled on her cheeks and nose. She never wore makeup and kept her long white hair tightly braided and pulled back so sternly that people always thought she was in a constant state of pain. True to her heritage, she was a proud Creole.
   The five vanity mirrors, all different shapes and sizes taken from all over the house, appeared as black slate in the darkened room.
   Emily sat to Abigail’s right. Her bald, stout-faced husband, Bill, a recovering alcoholic, sat next to her. Bernard, the family’s only Ivy-League Graduate, sat to Abigail’s left. In his mid-thirties and ruggedly handsome, he was intelligent, with a dry wit and a roster of women his girlfriend didn’t know about. Old Uncle Desmond, in his mid-seventies with the energy of a man half his age, rounded out the group and sat opposite Abigail. Of the whole family, Desmond possessed the lightest skin of them all, a creamy Mocha brown with an enviously smooth complexion. The only discernable distraction was a rough scar on his left cheek that stretched from the left corner of his mouth up to his left cheekbone, the result of an unfortunate knife incident when he was a youth.
   Rain droplets began to rap upon the windowsill and despite the breeze; the air was laborious to breath. Abigail swept her cadaverous eyes across the table almost as if she could see each person.
   "Do you trust me?" she asked. "From this moment forward, will you do what I tell you to do?"
   Each guest glanced at one another, as though looking for some kind of subconscious permission to answer.
   "My dearest family," Abigail said. "You have shown great courage in allowing me to contact our Grace in this way in this most difficult of times. I believe when God Himself denied me the gift of vision, He bestowed upon me something much more powerful: a way to see through the underlying layers of existence. This includes the other side. At this moment, your voices show me much more than any superior vision could. I am aware these proceedings go against everything Christian we hold dear. But please, I would ask you all not to be afraid."
   Emily looked around the table and noticed that everyone else was doing the same.
   Desmond took in a deep breath and said, "Go ahead, Abigail. We’re ready."
   Abigail gazed directly at Desmond. "Do not break the circle. And from this moment on, do not look into the mirrors." Then she closed her eyes.
   Emily sat motionless, clutching her husband’s hand. Without meaning to, she glanced down at the dark mirror in front of her, and then lifted her eyes quickly away.
   "I said; do not look into the mirrors." Abigail’s eyes were still closed.
   "I’m sorry," Emily stammered.
   "Some say mirrors are the windows to the soul," Abigail began. "Others say they are the devil’s doorway. There are those who believe that they are thin veils of ether separating the dead from the living. Tonight, we will strip away the layers of glass, and reveal what lies in the void beyond."
   Bernard coughed. "What lies in the void?"
   "Once you can see past the reflection, it is your soul that stares back at you. The soul that reveals your true form. The form you will live in forever once you cross over."
   "What about Grace?" Emily asked. "How do the mirrors help us see Grace?"
   "The energy we generate to see past the glass will enable Grace to show herself. To communicate. To speak to her clearly, we only have a short window of time to find her before she passes too deep into the afterlife. So please do exactly as I say. The time is now. Do not let go of each other’s hands."
   As Abigail spoke, the gilded chandelier above the table began to sway. Emily wasn’t the first to notice, and she was sure they all attributed it to the breeze, but it didn’t stop the back of her neck from prickling.
   Abigail, eyes closed, began to whisper strange utterances. It was no language they recognized.
   The candle suddenly flickered in an icy draft that didn’t come from the window.
   "Abigail?" Emily said.
   Then Desmond spoke. "Something’s happening."
   All of them concentrated. There was no sound but the soft utterances of Abigail’s voice. The wind grew stronger and almost extinguished the candle. Emily’s hand trembled.
   "Don’t let go," Bill said.
   Desmond’s eyes were closed. "Do you feel it?"
   "Feel what?" Bernard replied. He studied the walls of books, hoping to see or sense something move.
   Emily was shaking the table and Bernard’s gaze shifted toward her. She had her eyes closed.
   "Emily," Bernard whispered. "Are you shaking the table?"
   Her lip was trembling. Emily was seeing dark shapes in her mind’s eye sweep past her mental field of vision. Vague impressions of horrible, distorted human faces. Her expression became tense, rigid.
   "Emily?" Bernard repeated.
   "There’s a hand," Emily said. "On my shoulder."
   Bernard looked and saw nothing. "There’s nothing there, Emily."
   She opened her eyes, and she blinked quickly to wash away the tears. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she couldn’t move. She continued to feel the pressure of five fingers and a palm on her shoulder. And the pressure was increasing, pushing her to the seat. "I can’t move."
   A moment later, a sound rose from the mirror in front of her.
   Soft at first, then louder, closer. A sickening gurgle, as if someone were being strangled.
   Sweat flushed over Emily’s back and soaked her blouse. Her eyes were slowly and painfully being pulled toward the mirror. Something was compelling her to look down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her reflection. But another image was forming in the glass. As the image in the glass took shape, a crushing pain in her hand distracted her. Something was wrong with Bill. His fingers tightened around hers and she looked at him just as he looked at her; his face was deformed and misshapen as if something had crushed all the bone underneath. He was suffering. His lips moved, trying to speak, but his ruined jaw couldn’t form the words. Emily screamed.
   A powerful current of wind curled around the table almost knocking the guests out of their seats. The wind carried with it the tainted stench of rotted earth.
   Desmond’s mirror shot across the table and smashed against the far wall, spearing book spines with shards of glass. Bernard, soaked in sweat and shaking, looked at Desmond. The older man’s head was craned back, and he mumbled something illegible. Bernard glanced at Emily and Bill. They were also in their seats with their heads arched back, mumbling into thin air.
   Gripping tightly to the hands of Desmond and Abigail on either side of him, Bernard sensed an overpowering compulsion to look down into his mirror. So he did.
   Abigail suddenly opened her corpselike eyes and stared directly at Bernard. "You are not Grace!" she yelled. "Who are you? Who are you?"
   Bernard pulled his hands away and covered his face. The heavy table began to rise up and then crash down, banging the floor with all of its weight. Some of the mirrors fell and broke. Bernard’s mirror stood its ground, never straying from his sight.
   "Who are you?" Abigail screamed.
   Bernard lowered his hands from his face and stared directly into his mirror. His reflection was distorted and locked into a silent scream. But there was something else. There were faces behind him. Staring at him through the darkness. Tortured faces of people he didn’t recognize. They were in agony and very close, just over his shoulder. Bernard turned but found nothing there.
   "Stop!" Abigail shrieked and slammed her hands on the table. "Stop your advance!"
   The table ceased its writhing. The wind disappeared and the room fell silent quickly. Everything was still. Even the mid-summer breeze was gone. The family members stared at Abigail in astonishment and fear. All of them wondering what had just happened.
   "Grace is not here," Abigail said calmly. "The wrong door was opened. I’m sorry. The window has closed. Grace is gone."